


Gotham

by gwydionx



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Jason is an idiot, M/M, but we love him anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwydionx
Summary: Jason wasn't in the habit of noticing men in Gotham.This was different.





	Gotham

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I wouldn't post any more fics unless they were complete, but this is the one exception to the rule. I'm making this up as I go, because these two idiots deserve each other, and we're gonna have some fun along the way. 
> 
> Character list and tags will continue to grow as the fic progresses. I promise nothing squicky, but there will be canon-typical violence eventually. 
> 
> Beta-ed by the brilliant [TheFightingBull](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFightingBull/pseuds/TheFightingBull). Thank you, as always. <3

Jason wasn’t in the habit of noticing men in Gotham.

Not in the general sense— you run these streets long enough, you start recognizing people you've never even met, get a feel for the pulse of the city and the people. Growing up with Batman kind of killed any lack of situational awareness, in uniform or not. League of Assassins did that too, in a more impersonal way. Even in his civvies, he noted more than the average person, and as Red Hood he was always on alert.

This was different. This guy... Jason was pretty damn sure he'd never run into him on patrol. On either side of the fence. He was just a civilian, a normal, run-of-the mill joe getting his morning fix in an urban coffee shop, as far as Jason could tell. Which gave him no reason to be looking. But looking he was.

The guy was tall, and lean—even from a distance, and bundled in a long winter coat, Jason could see that. Shock blond hair was clean-cut, but deliberately mussed. Style-conscious. His long, lean fingers held the coffee cup deftly, as if used to handling intricate things. Add that to the manicured nails and high-end suit the man was wearing—more professor than banker—and Jason started to get the picture.

The guy had money, but he didn't want to broadcast it. Family money, too. He carried himself like someone who knew he was worth something—the kind of aloofness that was taught before you could walk, let alone before you understood.  Jason had enough time in Bruce's world and out of it to recognize old money.

Thing was, the guy didn't _look_ it. A hint of a five o'clock shadow was on his jaw, like he'd forgotten to shave that morning, and his pants, vest and long winter coat looked comfortable and well-worn. The top buttons of his pale shirt had been undone, in a way that Jason couldn't help but notice. From across the coffee shop, Jason watched the stranger pick up his to-go cup and thank the barista with half-hearted enthusiasm. Something about it almost seemed uncomfortable—as if he weren't used to the exchange.

It was enough to tip Jason’s curiosity over the edge. As the guy drifted toward the condiment bar, he downed another swill of his own coffee, and rose.

He approached the man from the side. Jason’d had a few years in his new life now, and knew his bulk was as intimidating in-plainclothes as it was out of it. Not many guys could say they gave Batman a run for money in weight and muscle mass.

And he definitely took note of the side-glance that said the guy was aware of his presence.

“Sugar’s on the left,” he tried with an easy smile.

The stranger glanced up at him. Eyes that blue shouldn’t be legal, Jason decided. Like freaking glaciers. “I’m sorry?”

“The sugar,” he repeated. “It’s in a jar to the left.”

Glancing back to the sidebar, the man spotted the canister and lifted the lid.

“They like to hide it—thinks it’ll make people healthier or something,” he let his mouth run. He watched the man tear open a packet and pour it in his drink. “Y’know, because nothing says health nut like a double whip latte at 3PM.”

The man replaced the lid without looking up. The unperturbed expression didn’t fall. “While your attempts to ingratiate yourself are endearing, I have to wonder why you’re standing there.”

Jason’s smile widened just a smidge. Measured tones, Oxford accent. Not native Gotham, then. “Do I need a reason?”

A cynical half-smirk tugged at the corner of the man’s mouth. “In this city? Always.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Jason hid a moment of hesitation in his drink, using the delay to settle on an answer. There was something about this man—something out of place, besides just the accent. There was a reason he’d caught Jason’s eye from across a crowded coffee shop.

The stranger threw evidence of his coffee-doctoring in the bin. “Well?”

“Just curious, is all,” Jason admitted. “Guess I hadn’t figured it out, myself.”

The man turned, and those ice-cold eyes caught Jason in their stare again—somehow, they still seemed to be laughing. At him. A quirked smile that was half invitation, half challenge caught Jason by surprise. “Let me know when you do.”

The man turned, weaving casually through the crowd to disappear out onto the street.

Jason was left standing at the sidebar with a half-drunk coffee and smirking like an idiot. The guy was trouble, he could tell that clear enough. What kind… He didn’t know yet.

He couldn’t help the small voice inside of him that answered—c _hallenge accepted._

#

He wished he could say he ran into the strange man soon after. That it fell out like a movie, comically bumping into the guy at the bank or the post office or something. But there was a new villain in town, one of the stupid ones that decided taking an enormous amount of hostages and threatening to gas the entire subway were good methods to keep the crazy vigilantes at bay.

And it would have caused a problem for the Bats—he'd said it once, and he'd say it again, the whole damn system was flawed—if Jason and his sniper rifle hadn't been there to neutralize the threat. One thing about the dumb ones, they always did their grandstanding standing out in the open.

So a full two months and a dead supervillain later, Jason was sitting at home reviewing the footage from the property damage—Tim always chose to run algorithms for that kind of thing, but Jason knew there was some stuff math just didn't catch—and his eyes caught on a familiar figure standing on the steps of the only standing building on a block blown out and leveled by the madwoman's plot. Shock blond hair, long overcoat, and a very professor-looking satchel under his arm.

He rewound the footage.

The building wasn’t just undamaged. It was untouched.

What this strange man had to do with the lack of destruction to his building, Jason didn't know. Probably just a fluke. But still... He now happened to have the man's address, and if Jason didn't know what he wanted from the stranger, there was no reason Red Hood couldn't pay him a visit.

For the case, obviously. Never know when a witness statement might come in handy. He was just being a good detective, really.

Bruce would be so proud.

#

It was dark when the man finally returned to his split-level residence in the heart of downtown Gotham. A few cursory searches had turned up surprising information. The place was registered to a shell company out of England. At least, he assumed it was a shell company. All other mentions of it turned up nothing. As far as he could tell, the place didn't actually do business with anyone, apart from owning a handful of ritzy hideaways across the globe. Maybe some millionaire's vacation getaways, maybe not. No one came to Gotham on vacation.

The really frustrating part was he'd yet to find the stranger's name.

Jason watched the man trudge up the steps—if walking that graceful could be called trudging—and undo the lock from his vantage point a building over. Even from here, there was something off about him. Not in the unsettling way. Not in the way that meant he was up to no good. But the mix of curiosity in Jason's chest was just borderline enough to make him doubt.

The guy didn't belong in Gotham. And Jason was going to find out why.

After several minutes, giving the man time to settle in and let his guard down, Jason rappelled to the second story window.

He'd cased the joint earlier, before his mystery man got home, and had confirmed the layout the city planning division had on file. Should be an easy in on the second floor into the bathroom. New window, standard lock, no chance of it being painted over or warped shut. He'd brought his tools with him just in case, but as he landed outside the window ledge and saw the window model, he knew this was going to be a piece of cake.

Or, it should have been. Rationally, it should have taken Jason all of ten seconds to get the screen popped and the lock undone. Everything went according to plan—the lock clicked just like it should have. He angled himself to get leverage, and pulled.

The window didn't budge.

"Fuck," he growled under his breath. Two more minutes, and he had nothing. The pane didn't even shift. Frustrated, he triple-checked the inside of the window. No extra mechanisms held it shut, no bar in the runner.

He had about five more minutes before he risked being noticed. Frustrated, he threw all of his not-inconsiderable muscle mass into getting the damn thing to bust free, leveraging his weight against the outside brick for extra force.

Nothing.

Not how he saw this going.

He considered his options. Bust the window, which would be loud and bring the guy running. Push his luck and try another point of entry—not preferable, especially if the guy had guns. He was going for casually unnerving encounter, not full-out home invasion.

Fuck it, now he was pissed.

He used his tools. He tried his knives. He was tempted to use acid to loosen the mechanism, but really, that kind of tipped the scales into overkill. Even if the window had better seal than a freaking space capsule.

Eventually, dangling there like an idiot outside the guy's building, Jason came to a realization.

He may have miscalculated.

#

He called Roy.

“I need your take on a situation.”

“Stop the fucking presses. Are you actually asking for my _advice_?”

Jason rolled his eyes and tossed aside a pile of junk mail on the counter. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky, kid.”

“Naw, man. Just let me mark it on my calendar. April 28th. Is it April 28th? Where the fuck did that calendar go?”

“Just listen, genius. I have a situation. An interpersonal situation.”

“Wait, you mean like…”

Jason crossed his arms. “Like there’s another person, and I’ve talked to them. Him. Once.”

 “Okay…” Roy was obviously trying not to be a shit about this. “You gonna give me details, or is this like a weird game of phone charades?”

“Thing is, there’s something about him. Something off. I tried to bust into his place, and his bathroom window was like Fort Knox.”

“Wait, you did what?”

“I met him and was curious, so when the chance came to question him about a case, I went in on it.”

Even through the phone connection, he heard Roy’s exasperated sigh. “Jay—”

“Not question-him question him, with knives and shit. Just the regular kind. Without the knives. Knives weren’t involved. He was just a witness.”

“You realize that does not make this better.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Show up on his doorstep and ask?”

“I dunno, man. You realize who you’re talking to, right? Need I remind you of my stellar romantic history?”

“Interstellar. Pretty sure that last one blew up in your face, though.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Roy said. A half-breath of pause, like he was gearing himself up. “How is Kori doing, anyway?”

And there it was. Jason cringed. “Haven’t heard from her.”

“Huh,” Roy mused. “Well… I’m the last person on Earth you should be calling for advice on this, Jaybird. And you know it. So what shit are we really mucking?”

Jason did know it. But all the other options were even worse. He stared at the counter, hearing Roy wrestle with something loud and metal on the other end. “Nevermind. Just try not to blow half of Manhattan to hell.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

Maybe that’s why he called Roy—he was fucked up enough to know another fuck-up when he saw one. And to leave well enough alone when it needed to be. He hung up the phone, but not before he heard a string of expletives bombard the speaker.

He really hoped Roy didn’t blow up Manhattan.

#

Plan B went marginally better.

Three days later, Jason ambushed his mystery man in an alleyway. He’d timed it out, caught him just as he was cutting across the backstreet to get to the subway. He descended like a bat out of hell—fuck you, Bruce, he could be whatever damned night creature he wanted—and landed three feet behind him.

The guy didn’t flinch. Didn’t even halt his step.

Jason’s jaw clenched. Who the fuck was this bastard?

As the stranger kept stepping down the alley, Jason did the only thing he could think of. He shouted the name that had been on the shell company. “Malfoy!”

That did it. The man’s step faltered. “Am I to assume you are the bumbling cretin who paid my window a visit the other night?”

Jason was caught off guard. Not a wild assumption, but still more on-point than he would have liked. And _cretin_? “I have questions about the attack two weeks ago.”

“And home invasion seemed the best route?” He finally turned, cutting Jason to the core with an ice-cold glare.

Jason didn’t give ground. “Every building on your block was destroyed. Your place is still standing.”

“An astute observation,” he answered. “I suppose I have the building planners to thank for that. At this point, I’m surprised every building in Gotham hasn’t been leveled more than once.”

Jason felt a pang at that—dead or not, resurrection or not, Gotham was still _his_ city. And the cavalier tone got under his skin. “Don’t fuck with me, Malfoy.” He slipped the name in again, fishing for a reaction. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, I _will_ find out.”

The man’s nose almost wrinkled in annoyance. “Is that meant to intimidate me?”

That wasn’t a yes, Jason decided. Wasn’t a no, either. “Friendly suggestion. I’m not the only player with eyes in this city.”

The man—Malfoy, Jason settled on—looked him up and down with a wry smirk that should have made Jason feel two inches tall. Should have, because all it really made him feel was an overwhelming urge to throw the guy against the wall. More evidence he had no clue what he was doing.

“…Why do you care so much?” Malfoy asked at last. Still condescending, but with a hint of genuine curiosity.

Jason’s gloved hand clenched. “It’s what I do.” 

“Stalk unwary pedestrians and harass them about building codes?”

“Stop assholes with an agenda from burning my city to the ground.”

Malfoy’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, Mister…”

“Hood,” Jason growled. “Red Hood.”

Amusement. “Hood,” he nodded. “I have no intention of bringing down Gotham. At least, not today,” he added with a smirk.

Malfoy was teasing him. The Red Hood, scourge of Gotham, wanted in a dozen countries and sporting an arsenal that would make Deadshot think twice.

This fucker had balls. And God help him, Jason liked it.

“Better not,” he warned, reaching for his grappling gun. “I’ll be watching.”

Malfoy gave him a grin. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”

#

Back at his safehouse, Jason flopped on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

The bathroom sink dripped monotonously from down the hallway. A crack snaked along the east wall, where the plaster had started to crumble. The whole place smelt like stale cigarettes and beer.

It felt like home.

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbled.

Things was… This was comfortable. Ratty couch, battered furniture, and no one to care. Kori would have said he was avoiding shit. Jason knew he was. But he liked the quiet. Liked kicking up his muddy boots on the table, and assembling his armory at 3AM across the kitchen table undisturbed. Liked knowing if the beer can moved a few inches to the left, it was him who put it there.

He’d always been a control freak. Things were easier this way.

So it made no sense why he was sprawled here, a push-button away from dialing one of the last people on the planet he wanted to talk to. But apparently he was that stupid.

“…Don’t know a good thing when you got it, Todd,” he muttered in recrimination.

Dick picked up on the third ring.


End file.
